


A Crash Course in Surgery 101

by whenrosesweredragons



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Comedy, Gen, Manipulation, Mild Gore, Misogyny, Transmisogyny, Villain PoV, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenrosesweredragons/pseuds/whenrosesweredragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waylon said it himself: Gluskin’s an amateur surgeon, but he had help learning what he does know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crash Course in Surgery 101

**Author's Note:**

> This is a [kink meme fill.](https://outlastkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/692.html?thread=6836#cmt6836)

Gluskin's not a doctor, but hell, neither is Trager. It’s been hard work, restraining his former colleagues during the riot and learning new surgery techniques, making incisions he only dreamed of while staring at moving Rorschach tests for hours.

And if there's anything Trager's learned through his very illuminating life, it's that he hates quitters and that practice makes perfect. Cliché, but practical.

His corner of the asylum is a pretty conducive learning space. Open, lots of equipment options. Some fresh Colorado mountain air to top it off. It's not so bad.

During a lull in his work, Trager gets a visitor with impressive fashion taste. Not that Trager likes clothes. Most things burn his skin, even the lightest fabric.

“I'd like to learn how to perform a surgery,” Gluskin says. Eddie fucking Gluskin.

“You want to be my pupil. Really, buddy? That's why you risked being a smear on Walker's fists or being hounded by those religious loonies?” Trager isn't sure who is worse. Well, at least Walker is quick about it.

“Yes, darling.” Darling, strange. Trager has been called many things, but never somebody's darling. Probably a speaking quirk. A dime a dozen. (Like he can talk.)

Gluskin continues, “I need to make a bride, the perfect woman.” Okay, so he's going straight for Frankenstein's monster shit. Sure, fine, no judgment. Trager has seen his fair share of weird while being tortured and experimented on by people he once considered friends. No big deal. “But every whore I've met so far has had a vulgar part.”

“You ever cut up a body before?” Trager hides a toothy grin. As if he doesn't know Eddie Gluskin, as if he doesn't know what Gluskin's probably done to other patients since the start of the coup.

A shadow passes over Gluskin's face, and he says with what sounds like harmless amusement, “No, I haven't needed to, but this is an...uncomfortable necessity, I’m afraid.”

A lie, interesting. “Finished them off quick? Efficient. I'd like it, but you gotta learn to savor the finer moments in life. Take your time.”

Gluskin's brow furrows, but he carries on without a hitch. “I've never harmed anyone. I've had a blessed life.”

Like Trager hasn't heard his share of bullshit. Please. Right, Gluskin's a saint, and Trager has a full head of hair and 20/20 eyesight.

“C’mon, buddy, really? You're gonna lie to me, your selfless mentor?”

“I'd appreciate it dearly if you simply taught me how to remove a vulgar bit, to make a path for the womb. I'm asking to make conception easier, not to cause more pain than necessary.”

Fingers, tongue, balls. Gluskin's eager, a sharpshooter, wants to go straight for the balls, despite being an amateur. Trager likes that, the ambition; aim high and shoot for the cojones. Or is it aim low? Anyhow.

Trager takes Gluskin over to one of the beds where a patient is waiting in restraints. “Hey, buddy. Eddie, meet Mark. Mark, Eddie.”

Gluskin gives Trager a tilt of the head and a soft smile. “Is she one of your darlings? I must admit, I can't help but be jealous.”

“Eh, Mark's okay, a solid six, if I'm being generous. Bit of a loser at golf, made jokes about slipping special mixes in some co-eds’ drinks. Hey, maybe he actually went there. Seems like the type.”

Gluskin remains stoic, all except for his hands curling into fists.

Mark pleads, “Dick, please, don't.”

Hoo boy, that's the last straw. None of his ex-peers can call him “Dick” without getting their daily evisceration regimen: a trim here, a cut there. Trager's really improving.

He chooses to teach Gluskin tongue removal first. Baby steps. Once it's gone, with the spurting out of the way, Mark may choke on his own blood. Trager can't help it that the dumbass keeps swallowing it. Blood dries quickly, turning black as it runs down Mark’s chin and cheeks.

Gluskin regards Trager with distrust, sharp scrutiny. Tone biting, he says, “You were one of them, weren't you, staring above and watching the rape and torment? Yes, I remember, even vaguely.” So, Mark’s big mouth and attempted niceties weren’t disregarded. Great.

“Buddy,” Trager replies, cheerful tone intact, “if you don't want me to practice on you, I suggest you drop the topic.”

Seriously, fuck this guy. What does he know about Trager's employment at Murkoff before he became a glorified “candidate” for that goddamn Engine? Trager had suggested to Jer that threatening family members, like that Park lady and countless others, would only bring the potential for more ruin. More lawsuits, federal investigations. From a practical standpoint, weariness could only help the higher ups. Before that, there were the deaths of multiple female patients, then Hope's mother and her guided cardiac arrest.

After a nap on the premises, the cushier side, Trager didn't realize the mistake of sleep until a day later. Jer, Jeremy fucking Blaire, Trager's closest friend, waltzed in and informed Trager that he compromised the company's security, the last straw. Billy Hope said he discovered his mother's fate and Murkoff’s deception because of Trager's dreams. Guards rushed in, pummeled him.

He'll never get those teeth back, no matter how many he extracts from his former peers’ mouths.

And, well, none of these Engine-loving and Walrider-worshipping ass-lickers will make it out of here alive, not after all that's happened. He'd been naïve, careless, sentimental. He overestimated his worth because surely he'd be missed and remembered. Never again. And Trager doesn't really care about any of the other patients so long as they aren't with Murkoff or Father Martin; anyone else should be smart enough to know not to come into his territory without an invitation.

“Now, do ya want the whole lesson or not?” He doesn't think he can maintain his temper if Gluskin quits. Trager's resigned himself to his space, his rejection, his disillusionment. At least one of them has to not be a quitter, has to chase something other than nihilism, a dream other than the goddamn Walrider.

Surprisingly, Gluskin obliges, choosing feigned charm over surrendering to his temper. He must really want his bride so he can get his kids and the white picket fence, which is just another spoke on the capitalist wheel if one digs deep enough. Not like Walker, Manera, the twins, or any of the Bible-thumpers are gonna be eager to teach Gluskin how to do surgery.

They practice on the balls. Odd statement, but a legitimate and productive session. Gluskin has a gift; he’s a quick learner, and better yet, he actually teaches Trager sewing techniques. Trager'll need to practice that on Jeremy one day. The eager groom is also great at keeping his vest clean.

After they're finished, Gluskin states, “Marvelous, I cannot thank you enough.”

They shake hands over Mark’s corpse, probably the most positive social interaction Trager's had in months. Gluskin's grip is a bit on the bruising side, not that Trager complains. Could be that his skin had reacted badly to the Morphogenic Engine; it's sensitive, tighter against his bones and muscles.

Gluskin says hopefully, “And you'll come to the wedding?”

“Yeah, sure, buddy,” Trager replies, not planning to come to the wedding at all.

“And if you, ah, need attire—”

“I'm good, buddy, thanks. Go drive the girls crazy.”

With any luck, Gluskin will get Father Martin to officiate the wedding, and Trager can be rid of that finger-painting fuck.

That'd be swell.


End file.
